a poem a day for a year #339

by Amy Turn Sharp


both of us fresh from a bath
the baby sits on my lap
hell-bent on pulling out my nose ring
trying to pick the freckles and moles off my body
he kicks and screams for my ring
he wants freckles
I smile like a lunatic
he traces little lines from mole to mole
holds my old nose ring in one tiny hand
his other fat hand flat on my bare chest
he is myth making
collecting the memory map of me
what I look like
smell like
how kindness comes off me
like clothes
light
water